


the way our horizons meet

by missandrogyny



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 12:24:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2269578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missandrogyny/pseuds/missandrogyny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courfeyrac really, <i>really</i> doesn’t like Combeferre.</p><p>Combeferre is in his class, and he’s so annoying.</p><p>Courfeyrac knows that he’s being unfair, seeing as he’s hardly spoken two words to the guy, but really, it’s annoying how Combeferre excels in everything without even trying. Math, Science, English, whatever, he does it and he does it well. He’s literally perfect. And, according to Enjolras, the only reason why he’s taking Basic Algebra is because he had accidentally skipped it on his first year in favor of taking Calculus.</p><p>Calculus. </p><p>He bets that if the guy had siblings, they’d all be having a nervous breakdown trying to achieve his level of perfection. </p><p>(Or, the one where Courfeyrac needs help in math.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	the way our horizons meet

**Author's Note:**

> This was heavily inspired by one of the prompts on the "AUs I really want" posts going around on tumblr, which is: "i really hate you but you have the highest grades in class and i need help college au"

It’s not that Courfeyrac is a _bad_ student. On the contrary, Courfeyrac is a good student, with a 3.0 GPA in the last three semesters while simultaneously being the captain of the University’s football team. His professors often spoke highly of him, and while he might not be the best student, he’s still able to get by just fine.

So it’s a surprise when Professor Valjean tells him he’s failing Basic Algebra.

“I know you’re smart,” Professor Valjean says to him after class. “It’s just that your last three quizzes were rather dismal, to put it mildly, and if you don’t improve, it’s going to take a toll on your average as a whole.”

Courfeyrac bites his lip. “Is there any extra credit I can do, sir?”

Valjean sighs. “Yes, but extra credit can only do so much.” He runs a hand through his graying hair. “I’m afraid I have to tell you that you’re suspended from the football team, at least until your grades show some sign of improvement.”

Courfeyrac looks down at his hands. “Alright, thank you sir.”

\---

After Courfeyrac tells Grantaire the whole story, the first thing he says is, “Can’t help you there, I’m shit at math.”

“But you’re not failing,” Courfeyrac whines, flopping down on Grantaire’s bed. He grabs a pillow buries his face in it, squeezing his eyes shut. Grantaire is allergic to tears. Maybe if he cries, Grantaire will be forced to help him. It’s a tempting thought.

Grantaire snorts from somewhere beside him. “Look, Courfeyrac, I barely get by in that class. And besides, I can’t teach. We’ll both end up failing when it comes to finals, and you’ll end up having to give up the football team for good.

Courfeyrac whines into the pillow, and Grantaire just reaches over and pats him on the back.

\---

Courfeyrac goes to Jehan next, who takes one look at him, and says, “If this is about math I really can’t help you.”

“Did Grantaire text you?” Courfeyrac asks. Grantaire is a nosy little bastard.

Jehan shrugs, but lets him in. “He keeps me updated in the new developments of your incredibly interesting life. But seriously, Courfeyrac, I’m a Creative Writing Major. I would help you if you needed help in English, but Math? Nope. Besides, it sounds like you need really high grades, and I can’t get you those.”

“Please?” Courfeyrac asks, using his puppy dog eyes, but Jehan just shakes his head.

“Sorry, Courfeyrac.

\---

He doesn’t ask Joly because Joly is swamped with homework, what with being a pre-med student. Bossuet offers to help him, for which Courfeyrac is grateful, but they can’t find a certain time they can meet. Bahorel laughs at him when he asks, and Courfeyrac feels bad for asking Feuilly.

He asks Enjolras as a last resort.

“Please?” Courfeyrac says, pouting at him. He’s been told by many people that it’s irresistible. “You’re my best friend.”

Enjolras, however, seems to have developed some kind of Courfeyrac-resistance, because he just sighs and shakes his head. “Courfeyrac, I would, but I’m really busy. With Student Council, co-captaining the football team, Les Amis, and my internship application, I really don’t have the time.”

Courfeyrac hangs his head, defeated. He knows that Enjolras loves him and would help him, if he could, but he also knows that Enjolras is far too busy with his…everything. Enjolras is like the energizer bunny of students, active in almost every single organization and a perfect student who seems to exist only to make you feel bad.

Enjolras claps him on the shoulder. “I could ask Combeferre to help you,” he offers, and Courfeyrac groans.

\---

Courfeyrac really, _really_ doesn’t like Combeferre.

Combeferre is in his class, and he’s so annoying.

Courfeyrac knows that he’s being unfair, seeing as he’s hardly spoken two words to the guy, but really, it’s annoying how Combeferre excels in everything without even trying. Math, Science, English, whatever, he does it and he does it _well_. He’s literally perfect. And, according to Enjolras, the only reason why he’s taking Basic Algebra is because he had accidentally skipped it on his first year in favor of taking Calculus.

Calculus.

He bets that if the guy had siblings, they’d all be having a nervous breakdown trying to achieve his level of perfection.

\---

Combeferre actually agrees to tutor Courfeyrac, and Courfeyrac would weep from happiness if it weren’t Combeferre.

\---

Here’s the thing:

Courfeyrac isn’t prone to hating on people he barely knows. He isn’t prone to hating on anyone, actually. It’s not part of his moral code.

Courfeyrac genuinely loves people. He loves making new friends, he loves getting to know what makes them tick, loves hearing what they’re passionate about, what they love and what they hate, where they went and where they want to go. He’s very much a people-person.

But there are always exceptions to rules, right?

\---

“Right,” Combeferre says quietly, the instant they’re seated in the library. He has a nice voice, Courfeyrac thinks, warm and deep and incredibly melodic, easy to listen to. Courfeyrac thinks that he could make an audiobook, if he wanted to, and it would be incredibly successful.

And that’s another point _against_ him.

“Enjolras told me you needed help,” Combeferre says, pulling out a pen and a piece of paper. “Where do you want to start?”

Courfeyrac had brought his three quizzes, a textbook, and a scowl on his face. He shows Combeferre the quizzes, which Combeferre reviews, his eyes flitting back and forth. Courfeyrac scowls at him. He’s waiting for a slip up, any slip up, for Combeferre to comment that he’s just some sort of dumb jock. That way, he can pull out his phone and flash him his 3.0 GPA.

(He knows he’s being petty, but he can’t help it.)

But Combeferre doesn’t give him the satisfaction. Instead he smiles, and says, “Let’s start with some basic exercises, shall we?”

Soon, Courfeyrac is engrossed—well as engrossed as he can be—in Math. Combeferre teaches well, explains every step, and points out the flaws in Courfeyrac’s solution so very kindly that the Courfeyrac drops the scowl on his face. Instead he focuses on solving, focuses on Combeferre’s voice as he tries to redo everything, and he can’t help but feel proud once he’s finally arrived at the right answer. He grins at Combeferre, who grins back, before turning his attention onto the next set of numbers.

They do this for around two hours, until Combeferre’s phone starts vibrating and Combeferre says goodbye, picks up his stuff, and leaves.

Courfeyrac stays for a bit, deep in thought, before gathering up his papers grabbing his textbook and leaving.

\---

He has Art with Grantaire, who, for all intents and purposes, keeps drawing Enjolras on his sketchpad.

“So,” Grantaire asks, not looking up from detailing Enjolras’ golden hair, “how was the tutoring yesterday?”

Courfeyrac just sits down, pulls out his sketchpad and ignores Grantaire, choosing instead to listen to the lecture their art professor was giving.

Grantaire nudges him with his elbow. “Come on, you came back pretty late yesterday, was it that bad?”

“He was nice,” Courfeyrac says, looking at the word _chiaroscuro_ written on the board. “Helpful.” In fact, Combeferre was more than, but then it would be a huge blow to his pride. Besides, he spent the last few days complaining to Grantaire about spending two hours with Combeferre every other day, and he doesn’t want to go back on his word. He’s a very proud person, you see.

“And…?”

“And what?” Courfeyrac whispers angrily, that even Grantaire looks a bit taken aback. Courfeyrac sighs. “Look, I’m sorry, but I really don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to talk about Math, ever.”

Grantaire, because he’s a good friend, leaves him alone after that.

\---

Courfeyrac watches as Enjolras leads the football team through a series of drills and exercises. He watches them pass the ball, practice their kicks.

 _That should be me there_ , he thinks angrily, again and again. He doesn’t notice the wetness below his eyes until it has dripped onto his hand. He swipes it away furiously, telling himself that he will not cry, not over this. He will not blame Enjolras for stepping up, and taking his place. It’s not Enjolras’ fault. Enjolras is his best friend, and he has a duty to the team, the same way Courfeyrac does. Or did.

But he can’t help but think that it was supposed to be him who would bring the team to victory this year. It was supposed to be him training his members, him devising strategies and plans, and now he’s not able to do it all because of a stupid Math grade.

The thought of it brings a pang in his chest, and he shakes his head, dispelling the thought. He chooses to focus on Enjolras, whose hair glows, even from across the field, running and shouting and telling them what to do.

Jehan finds him there later, when the sun is setting, and Enjolras’ hair shines beneath the sun.

He doesn’t say anything, simply sits down beside him.

“It’s only been a week, and I miss it,” Courfeyrac says, looking at the team fighting over the checkered ball. “It’s only been one week.”

“Shh,” Jehan says, resting his head on Courfeyrac’s shoulder. Courfeyrac leans towards him, grateful for the touch. “You’ll get to go back. Really. I believe in you.”

They stay like that until football practice ends, and they continue to stay until the stars come out, twinkling at them.

\---

Enjolras runs an activist group called Les Amis de l’ABC.

They have meetings every Thursday evening in the backroom of the Café Musain, discussing current affairs and bills in the government. Courfeyrac has never missed a meeting; he’s the vice-president.

Enjolras, every meeting, is passion personified, with righteous fury and optimism about even the smallest injustices in the world. He rages on and on about anything—queer rights, woman’s rights, children’s rights—and he does so with so much energy and anger that’s it’s almost hard not to get sucked in. He makes you want to be good, makes you want to rally against capitalist governments, makes you want to throw some furniture onto the ground and build a barricade.

He’s not exaggerating.

(But he’ll admit he got the barricade image from June Rebellion of 1832. They’re just not doing that because the June Rebellion _failed_.)

He shows up on that Thursday, Grantaire in tow (or in tow of Grantaire, because it’s hard to tell who’s more excited for the meeting) and runs straight into Combeferre.

“What are you doing here?” He asks loudly, that most everyone turns to stare at him. Grantaire, beside him, rolls his eyes and goes away to orbit around his sun.

“Nice to see you too, Courfeyrac,” Combeferre says sarcastically, but not unkindly. “Enjolras invited me here.”

“Oh,” Courfeyrac says. He gestures to the tables around him, to where the other Amis are settling. “Take a seat, then.”

He hurries away, fast enough not to catch Combeferre’s reply, and slides in his customary seat beside Enjolras, who’s typing away at his laptop.

“So,” Courfeyrac says, feigning nonchalance, “I didn’t know you invited Combeferre to our meetings.”

Enjolras doesn’t look up, just continues typing. “I ran into him at the library. He showed interest in the Cause, so I invited him.”

Courfeyrac pouts. “How come the last time I invited someone you unceremoniously kicked him out?”

“Montparnasse wanted to get into your pants,” Enjolras reminds him, still focused on typing.

“My pants, or Grantaire’s pants?”

“It doesn’t matter, that’s not our Cause.”

“I thought getting into Grantaire’s pants _was_ our Cause,” Courfeyrac watches as Enjolras flushes, the tips of his ears turning bright red, before Enjolras turns to him.

“Courfeyrac, I swear to God—“

“Hey,” he says, raising his hands, placating. “I kid, I kid. Look, whatever, next time I’ll bring someone who doesn’t _want_ to get into Grantaire’s pants. Are you happy?”

Enjolras doesn’t dignify that with a response.

\---

Courfeyrac cannot help but look at Combeferre.

He watches Enjolras, rapt with attention, as Enjolras brings to light the nuances of the anti-abortion bill they’re fighting. He watches Combeferre’s facial expressions change depending on the information being presented; he frowns, he furrows his brow, he looks pleased. It’s, to be honest, mesmerizing.

_Maybe Combeferre is in love with Enjolras._

The thought comes to him unbidden, and it feels like a punch to his gut. It sits wrong in his stomach somehow, a churning that he can’t seem to shake, and he doesn’t know why.

He’s probably just empathizing with Grantaire. Grantaire would probably feel like he’d been punched in the gut. He’d probably drink himself into a stupor.

Because no one can look at Grantaire and not see how very in love he is with Enjolras. Everytime he looks at Enjolras, it’s like a blind man seeing the sun for the first time.

And if Combeferre was in love with Enjolras, that would mean that Grantaire had competition.

He feels a hand on his elbow and it jolts him from his thoughts, finding Enjolras staring at him. “Is everything alright?” he asks. “You’re up.”

Courfeyrac stands, shakes his head, and goes over to present the statistics.

\---

The meeting ends soon, and Combeferre stands to go talk to Enjolras. Courfeyrac escapes that as quickly as possible.

Instead, he ends up in Grantaire, Joly and Bossuet’s table. Joly and Bossuet are telling Grantaire the story of how they met a gorgeous bartender but promptly lost her number.

He listens, he laughs, and tries to forget about the thoughts bouncing in his head.

\---

Professor Valjean hands him a sheet of extra credit problems after class.

Courfeyrac takes one look at it and sighs.

\---

He’s at the library, trying to solve it, when someone says, “You know, you should probably get the speed of the first runner before doing anything else.”

Courfeyrac groans, and flops his head down onto the table. “I can’t do this,” he complains.

Combeferre (because of course it’s Combeferre that finds him in his moments of weakness) sits beside him, pulling the paper from beneath his head. “This isn’t that hard.”

“Easy for you to say, you’re on track to becoming Summa Cum Laude.”

Combeferre ignores that, instead tapping on Courfeyrac’s head, making him sit up. “Here, I’ll teach you.”

“Aren’t you busy?” Courfeyrac asks the table.

“It can wait,” Combeferre says, and there’s something in the tone of his voice that makes Courfeyrac sit up. Combeferre smiles at him and Courfeyrac can’t help it, he smiles back.

\---

Saturday brings with it the shrill ringing of an unnecessary alarm because someone (Grantaire) forgot to turn it off.

Said someone (still Grantaire) is doing a very good job of sleeping through it.

Courfeyrac sighs, and makes his way into Grantaire’s room. He throws one of Grantaire’s shoes at him, before going to the bathroom to take a shower.

When he emerges, the alarm has stopped ringing. Courfeyrac thanks God for small mercies.

His quick search in the kitchen lets him know that there is nothing to eat, so he sighs and puts on his shoes. He might as well go to the Musain for breakfast.

When he gets there, he finds that someone else had the same idea. Because he, quite literally, runs into Combeferre.

Combeferre smiles at him, looking happily awake. Courfeyrac feels exhausted just by looking at him.

“Here for breakfast too?” Combeferre asks, still smiling.

“Mm,” Courfeyrac says sleepily. “Nothing to eat.”

Combeferre laughs at him, and Courfeyrac kind of wants to punch him. Gently. Punching hard requires too much energy.

“Still sleepy, I see. Why don’t you have breakfast with me?” Combeferre offers with a smile, and it’s only because of how sleepy Courfeyrac is that he follows Combeferre to a table.

Courfeyrac orders waffles while Combeferre orders pancakes and they sit there in companionable silence, Courfeyrac nursing his coffee.

It's after his first cup of coffee that Combeferre leans forward, a kind smile playing on his lips.

“So,” he says. “Tell me about yourself, other than the fact that you’re Enjolras’ best friend and that you’re failing in Math.”

Coufeyrac feels giddy at being called Enjolras’ best friend. They've been friends for far too long, he knows, but there's a sense of pride to being the best friend of that hot, unapproachable looking, angry guy.“What do you want to know?”

“Anything,” Combeferre says. “Family life, Hobbies, Favorite Books, Favorite Movies. I want to get to know you more.”

“Um,” Courfeyrac says, wracking his brain. “I like the Harry Potter series?”

The excited smile that greets him after that announcement makes him feel more awake than the coffee ever did.

\---

By the time their breakfast arrives, they’re deep in conversation about queer rights in the Wizarding World.

“I mean,” Courfeyrac says, stabbing his waffles with his fork, “When we ask for queer rights in the Wizarding World, people point us to Dumbledore. Who isn’t exactly a very good representation.”

“I agree,” Combeferre says. “J.K. Rowling had a very big opportunity to make Sirius and Remus queer, but she quite easily passed up that chance when she made Remus marry Tonks. Unless, of course, Remus was bisexual.”

“He could be,” Coufeyrac says, chewing on his waffle. “I mean, Harry was a pretty unreliable narrator. Maybe he was.”

Not long after, they move on to discussing Game of Thrones, then to discussing feminism in media. Courfeyrac finds that he’s enjoying himself, talking about all these things to someone who listens, who’s as passionate about these things as he is.

They take a detour and walk in the park; it’s a beautiful day, with the birds chirping. Combeferre buys them both ice cream, and they end up sitting on a bench, talking about nothing in particular.

It’s strange, how incredibly relaxed he feels around Combeferre. Don’t get him wrong, the guy is still annoying as fuck because he’s literally so perfect, but maybe he’s not that bad.

Just don’t tell Grantaire he said that.

\---

They go their separate ways soon after, and Courfeyrac finds himself walking to the soccer field, where Enjolras and the rest of the team are practicing. He takes a seat beside Grantaire, who seems to have finally gotten out of bed, and is sketching Enjolras.

Enjolras, of course, gives his one hundred and ten percent in everything. Courfeyrac can feel all the way from the bleachers, and it makes him itch to get his cleats and shin guards and just run, chasing the ball, getting sweaty and muddy.

It’s still a pang in his chest as he watches his teammates kick the ball, but he channels it into motivation, into doing better.

He watches until practice ends, and he watches as Enjolras walks off to meet Combeferre, who, Courfeyrac notices, is standing at the side of the football field. Combeferre says something and Enjolras laughs loudly, throwing his head back, and clapping Combeferre on the shoulder.

There's a twisting feeling in his gut.

\---

“Do you think,” Courfeyrac asks Jehan later that night, curled up on his couch, watching a horror movie, “that Combeferre is maybe in love with Enjolras?”

Jehan, after Enjolras, is Combeferre’s closest friend in the group. They met in a queer rights rally, a year ago and have kept in touch ever since. They meet up almost every week to have lunch and to keep each other updated in their lives, although, now that Combeferre is joining the group, it seems that that lunch date will be rendered useless.

Jehan hums thoughtfully. “Why, does it bother you?”

“Why would it bother me?” Courfeyrac asks, despite the sudden churning in his stomach.

“Hm, never mind,” Jehan says, and they fall silent again, watching.

“But seriously,” Courfeyrac persists. “Do you think he’s in love with Enjolras?”

“I don’t know, Courfeyrac,” Jehan says. “But I do know he likes someone.”

Courfeyrac tries to ignore the sudden sadness that sets.

\---

“Am I doing this right?” Courfeyrac asks, squinting at the paper. “It doesn’t look right.”

Combeferre looks up from his book and peers down at the paper, studying his solution for a moment. “It looks fine to me,” he declares. “Just continue.”

Courfeyrac does, writing and solving until he arrives at a final answer. He squints at it, before tugging at Combeferre’s sleeve.

Combeferre looks at him, then at the paper. Then he says, “Why don’t we take a break? Have dinner with me?”

“Depends. Is my answer right?” Courfeyrac asks.

“Having dinner with me depends on whether or not your final answer is right?” Combeferre replies, raising an eyebrow.

“Yep,” Courfeyrac says, popping the ‘p’. “So, is it?”

Combeferre hesitates, thinking, and Courfeyrac is starting to think that his answer is wrong and he's going to have to do it _again_ , when Combeferre smiles at him. “It is.”

Courfeyrac’s heart flutters, and he smiles back at Combeferre, before standing. “How about that dinner then?”

\---

They end up at a small Italian restaurant, not far from here. Courfeyrac orders pizza while Combeferre orders pasta, and they agree to switch to let the other try it.

Combeferre ends up telling him about his family: his parents, both doctors at the local hospital, and is sister, five years old and already incredibly brilliant. Courfeyrac listens to him, to the cadence of his voice, to the way he moves his hands. Halfway through his story, he rolls up his sleeves, and Courfeyrac’s jaw drops; on his arms are intricate tattoo sleeves, incredibly detailed and incredibly gorgeous.

 “I didn’t know you had those,” Courfeyrac says, clearing his throat, trying to sound calm. It’s hard, because Courfeyrac may, or may not have a tattoo kink. He’s not admitting to anything.

Combeferre looks down, at his arms, and _blushes_.

He honest-to-god blushes, and it’s adorable. Courfeyrac can feel his mouth dry up. He takes a sip of his water, trying, again, to look calm. This is Combeferre he’s talking about, annoyingly perfect Combeferre.

Who blushes and has tattoo sleeves. Oh God.

“I don’t really show them off,” Combeferre says, and Courfeyrac almost whines when he starts to fiddle with his sleeves. “I don’t know, I guess I only roll up my sleeves when I feel comfortable enough to do so. I can roll them back down, if you like?” And his long fingers are grabbing the sleeve and rolling them down, and Courfeyrac doesn’t know what to do. He makes a noise.

The hands stop in their progress.

“No, it’s okay,” Courfeyrac says, trying not to sound strained. “I like them.”

Combeferre looks squints at him, and Courfeyrac hopes his face doesn’t betray anything. But Combeferre rolls up his sleeves again, and Courfeyrac studies the tattoos.

“Will you tell me about them?” He asks.

“I got them right after I graduated high school.” Combeferre shrugs. “It was…liberating, to say the least.”

Courfeyrac reaches out, and, before he can stop himself, traces the moth shape on his arm.

Combeferre lets him.

\---

It’s after dinner when Combeferre offers to walk Courfeyrac home. They walk in companionable silence, looking at the stars, the shadows on the ground. It’s strange, Courfeyrac thinks, how, even if they seem to have run out of things to say, it’s not awkward.

“This is me,” Courfeyrac says, once they reach his apartment building. “Thanks for everything.”

He turns to enter the building, when he hears a quiet sigh that sounds strangely like ‘Courfeyrac’.

“Yes?” He asks, turning around, and suddenly Combeferre is close, so very close to him. Courfeyrac’s heart leaps in his chest, hammering wildly.

Combeferre is looking at him like he’s the world; like he’s the sun, moon and stars on a silver platter. Courfeyrac doesn’t know what to make of this stillness, this pause between them.

They’re in a vacuum, the air seems to have run out, and Combeferre reaches out, presses a hand to his arm. He can feel the smoothness of his palm; can almost imagine the delicacy of his bones that make up his long fingers.

He thinks, hysterically, that if Combeferre kissed him right now, he wouldn’t object.

Something—a crow, maybe—makes a sound, and it shocks them out of their moment. Combeferre murmurs a goodnight and strolls away, and Courfeyrac is left watching his retreating back.

He tries not to think of it.

\---

Courfeyrac drags them to a club on Thursday, after the meeting. He can't stop thinking about it, about that strange stillness between him and Combeferre.

It’s nothing; he _knows_ it was nothing, but every time his traitorous mind wanders to it his skin overheats and he feels like he’s losing air.

Maybe finding a drunken one night stand will help him forget.

He drinks at the bar, and then he dances, sometimes with Jehan, sometimes with random strangers. He loses himself in the music, trying to forget the smoothness of Combeferre’s palm and the way he looked, the sound of his voice. He tries to forget Combeferre.

But it’s hard because his eyes, of their own accord, search Combeferre out in the crowd, and he finds Combeferre watching him intently. They make eye contact and suddenly the crowd is far too much and he stumbles away, and makes his way outside.

He leans against the dirty brick wall and breathes heavily, closing his eyes and letting the cool night air shock him back into his senses. It’s just Combeferre. Annoying Combeferre, whom he really doesn’t like, because who the hell is that smart anyway? Who the hell is that smart and that nice and that attractive, with such a nice voice, and such beautiful eyes and such gorgeous hands, and god, those hands, those long delicate fingers sewn into a smooth palm, up a delicate wrist to forearms filled with tattoo sleeves and God, Courfeyrac wants to see how far up they go, do they reach his shoulders or stretch onto his back? Do they—

“Are you okay?” Combeferre, of course Combeferre, asks, and Courfeyrac wants to moan from embarassment, from pleasure, he doesn’t know.

“I’m fine,” Courfeyrac says, opening his eyes and looking straight at Combeferre. Combeferre, who looks at Courfeyrac with a familiar expression on his face, one that he can’t place. He looks at him like Courfeyrac hung the stars. He looks at him like he’s precious, like he’s incredibly wonderful.

Combeferre is looking at him, Courfeyrac realizes, the way Grantaire looks at Enjolras.

There’s that stillness again, that pausing; the one that makes it seem like they’re entirely in their on their own, in their own universe. Courfeyrac’s heart thuds in his chest, ringing loudly in his ears, and he wants to look away, but he can’t, he really can’t. Combeferre is right there, all sharp jawline and gorgeous tattoos, all perfection in a single package, and _maybe Combeferre is in love with Enjolras_ , but there’s something here, something delicate, something budding.

Courfeyrac shuts off his mind.

He closes his eyes and seals the distance between their lips.

The instant their lips touch, Courfeyrac wants to gasp for air. He’s suffocating, he’s drowning, but it’s an incredible sensation. He’s kissed many times, yes, but it’s nothing compared to this, compared to the way Combeferre’s lips respond to his and only his, to the way Combeferre wraps an arm around his waist and Courfeyrac grabs a fistful of his hair.

Courfeyrac wants to drink him like water, like milk; wants to trace him with his fingers, bruise him with his fingertips; wants to scratch his nails and mark him.

It’s over far too soon, when Combeferre draws back, presses his forehead against Courfeyrac’s and says, “You’re drunk.”

“I know,” Courfeyrac says. He closes his eyes and leans his head back against the wall. “I’m _so_ drunk.”

 _But it doesn’t change a thing_ , he thinks, breathing in sync with Combeferre, his back pressed against the dirty brick wall. _Drunk or sober, I’d still want you at the tips of my fingers. I’d still want you to be mine._

But that can’t ever happen.

It takes forever, but finally Combeferre steps back, closes his eyes, and sighs.

Courfeyrac leaves.

\---

In the past, whenever Courfeyrac had something bothering him, he would go sit on Enjolras’ bed and tell him everything. Enjolras would pretend to understand, and they’d end up cuddling on the bed and eventually fall asleep. It might not have been helpful, but it would be comforting, the warmth and presence of your best friend beside you. So naturally, his first instinct is to go to Enjolras.

However, Enjolras is busy, too busy for him.

Courfeyrac tries not to let his hurt show when Enjolras’ brushes off his invitation for lunch for the ninth time, claiming schoolwork or the other. Instead, he does his homework, even attempts a bit of math, and watches TV, the horrible feeling still gnawing at him.

It gets worse.

Because he sees Enjolras having lunch with Combeferre. Enjolras looks relaxed, happy and laughing, and Combeferre is laughing with him, and it hits him like a bolt of lightning.

He realizes he’s been replaced.

That he’s not as important to Enjolras as Enjolras is to him.

He wants to cry, but he doesn’t tell anyone about it.

(How can you tell anyone that you sort-of-maybe-kind-of-like the guy who's apparently stealing your best friend from you?)

\---

The next day, he sees them having lunch again, and he’s contemplating barging in there, trying to talk to Enjolras, but that would include a very awkward encounter with Combeferre and Courfeyrac doesn’t think he can do that yet.

He doesn’t speak to Enjolras anymore. Enjolras doesn’t notice.

Courfeyrac feels like shit.

He comes home early from class, one day, to the sounds of moaning in their apartment. Courfeyrac rolls his eyes, turns on the TV and puts it on the highest volume. He waits.

He doesn’t have to wait long.

Enjolras emerges from Grantaire’s bedroom, his hair a mess, his neck covered in love bites, wearing nothing but his boxers.

He freezes when he sees Courfeyrac sitting on the couch.

“Grantaire said you wouldn’t be home until later,” Enjolras says sheepishly.

“Don’t worry about it,” Courfeyrac mutters, turning his attention to the television. His hands start to shake.

Enjolras, for all his obliviousness the past week, notices something's wrong. Typical Enjolras, nosy when he's not particularly wanted. Courfeyrac resists the urge to roll his eyes.

“Are you okay?” He asks, sitting down beside him, reaching out to touch his arm. Courfeyrac swipes it away.

“I said, don’t worry about it,” he says louder, and his voice cracks. He wills himself not to cry. Enjolras doesn’t care, after all.

He's pathetic.

Enjolras frowns. “Courfeyrac—“

“I’m going out,” Courfeyrac interrupts, standing up abruptly. He swipes at his tears furiously, and leaves Enjolras without another word.

\---

He ends up sitting in the bleachers by the football field.

He’s openly crying, his hands in fists in his lap. His phone vibrates with texts—probably from Enjolras—but he ignores it, choosing instead to look down at his hands.

He’s lost the football team. He’s lost his best friend.

It’s not fair.

That’s how Combeferre finds him, a few minutes (or hours) later.

He doesn’t say anything, just sits beside him, far enough that they don’t touch, but close enough to reach out, should he want to.

“Leave me alone,” Courfeyrac mutters, his voice hoarse from crying. The tears have stopped flowing, but his hands are still shaking.

Combeferre doesn’t leave. Instead, he asks, “Are you okay?”

“Leave me alone, Combeferre,” Courfeyrac says, louder this time. “I don’t want to see you right now.”

“Enjolras called me. He’s worried about you.” Courfeyrac wants to scream, to punch him in the face, wants to throw himself off the bleachers and onto the ground. Tears spring to his eyes, again and he wipes them away.

“I’m worried about you too,” Combeferre says softly, so softly but Courfeyrac hears him anyway.

“Enjolras is sleeping with Grantaire,” Courfeyrac says, raising his head and looking at the horizon.

Beside him, he hears Combeferre fidget, and he says “I know.”

Courfeyrac digs his nails into his palms. “How long?”

“About two weeks,” Combeferre says, and it hurts that Combeferre knows more about Enjolras’ life than Courfeyrac. It hurts that Enjolras didn’t even bother to sit him down and tell him that he’s been sleeping with Courfeyrac’s roommate for about two weeks now, and yet Combeferre knows, maybe everyone knows.

“I didn’t know that,” Courfeyrac says, meekly. “I don’t know him anymore.”

“He’s your best friend—“ Combeferre starts, but Courfeyrac cuts him off.

“But I don’t know him anymore,” Courfeyrac says desperately, hysterically. “He didn’t even sit me down and inform me that he was sleeping with _my_ roommate. And yet, he took the time to inform you. He’s _your_ best friend now, not mine.” And he feels like a kindergartner, arguing over best friends, but he can’t help it. He has to let it out. He has to let it all out.

Combeferre, to his credit, doesn’t say anything.

“And you know what,” Courfeyrac continues hysterically. “This is all your fault. Everything is your fucking fault. You _stole_ him from me; he doesn't even notice that I’m dealing with my own shit here. It’s all ‘Combeferre this’ and ‘Combeferre that’ and he ignores me, he completely ignores me for you and I want to hate you, I really do.”

He’s openly crying now, standing and shouting at Combeferre, who’s still seated, looking at him calmly.

“But I can’t hate you, you’re too fucking nice, you’re too fucking _perfect_ , and you’re gorgeous, and I like you, I like you far too much to hate you, _I’m might be fucking in love with you_ , and maybe you’re in love with Enjolras, I don’t know, I’m just exhausted, Combeferre, I really am. I don’t understand myself anymore. Just, please, leave me alone.”

And for the second time, Courfeyrac leaves. Combeferre doesn’t follow him.

\---

Courfeyrac is studying for math when there’s a tentative knock on his door.

“Come in,” he calls, and Enjolras walks in, looking incredibly uncomfortable. He runs a hand through his hair.

“It has come to my attention,” he says, “that I've been a shit friend to you lately.”

Courfeyrac waves a hand. “Forgiven, already forgotten. You don’t need to tell me anything you don’t want to share with me.” Because he’s thought about it, and it’s true. Enjolras doesn't need to tell him anything he doesn't want to. Of course, it still hurts not knowing, but despite everything, Courfeyrac still respects Enjolras’ right to privacy.

Enjolras sighs. “It’s not that. I've been…neglectful of you, lately, and I’m sorry.”

“What the fuck am I, a dog?” Courfeyrac mutters, turning a page. “Seriously, Enjolras, it’s fine. I mean you were busy, I was being petty. It’s all in the past now.”

Courfeyrac is really hoping that Enjolras would just leave him alone, but instead Enjolras takes a deep breath, and sits on the bed.

“I haven’t always been there for you when you needed me,” Enjolras begins, looking down at his fingers. “And yet, you’ve always been there for me, whenever I needed even the smallest thing. And I’m sorry, I’m sorry for blowing you off, I’m sorry for not noticing what you’ve been going through, I’m sorry for not helping you in Math when you asked for it, all those weeks ago.”

“It’s fine,” Courfeyrac says. “You didn't have the time.”

“But I could have made the time,” Enjolras argues. “I could have made time for you, just like how you always seem to make time for me.”

Courfeyrac doesn’t answer, doesn’t move, doesn’t even breathe, until Enjolras speaks again. “You’re still my best friend, Courfeyrac. I’m really, really sorry.”

And then Courfeyrac stands and throws himself at Enjolras, hugging him tightly. Enjolras hugs him back, while Courfeyrac says, “You’re a fucking obtuse bastard, you know that?”

“I know,” Enjolras sighs, and he twirls one of Courfeyrac’s curls in his finger. “I’m sorry. So are we good?”

“Depends,” says Courfeyrac, leaning back to study his face. “How’s the sex with Grantaire?”

Enjolras flushes a deep red, and answers, “Really good,” and Courfeyrac laughs until his stomach hurts and the tears leak from his eyes.

“Oh, by the way,” Enjolras says, after Courfeyrac has stopped laughing. He smiles, mischievously, looking, for all intents and purposes, like a cat that has gotten the cream. “A certain someone told me to tell you that he’s not actually in love with me. He’s in love with, and I quote, ‘that one guy who’s failing math in his class.’”

Courfeyrac's heart stops.

_That one guy who's failing math in his class._

Enjolras pulls him into a hug, cuddles him like they did when they were younger. "You know," he says conversationally, like Courfeyrac isn't dying inside right now, "I have his number. And his address. You could go to him, if you want?"

\---

His feet take him to an apartment building, about a few blocks over. He follows someone inside and rides the elevator until he reaches the number he’s looking for.

Before he can think about what he’s doing, he knocks on the door.

Combeferre opens the door, his brow furrowed, but it straightens out when he sees Courfeyrac standing there. “Courfeyrac, what are you—“

“Is it you?” Courfeyrac cuts him off, looking at him. “Are you the one…Did Enjolras…Is it me?” He’s not making any sense, he knows but he needs to get this out there, before he loses the courage and runs home.

“Are you asking me if I'm in love with you?” Combeferre asks, leaning against the doorway. He crosses his arms, and it takes a moment for Courfeyrac to realize that he’s wearing a tank top, and his tattoos stop just below his shoulders.

“I, um, that is, yeah?” Courfeyrac answers eloquently, and Combeferre studies him seriously. Courfeyrac is debating whether to just run for it right now, and move to Antarctica and forget about everything that’s ever happened.

“What did Enjolras say, exactly?” Combeferre asks, and Courfeyrac turns away, an apology already on his lips when Combeferre grabs his wrist.

“Courfeyrac,” he says, and Courfeyrac sighs and turns to him.

“He said you were in love with the guy who was failing math in your class. Forget it,” he says. “There’s probably a lot of guys who fail math in our class. I’m sorry, I was being presumptuous, I’ll just…” he trails off, when Combeferre hand slides down, and intertwines with his.

“No,” Combeferre says slowly, like Courfeyrac is being deliberately obtuse. “I hate to break this to you, but you’re literally the only one failing Basic Algebra in class.”

Courfeyrac can’t help it, he laughs.

Combeferre uses his hand to pull him closer and slot their lips together.

\---

“How long?” Courfeyrac asks, when they’re both naked and sated, stretching out on Combeferre’s bed.

“Since that time you scowled at me at the library while I was looking at your quiz,” Combeferre says, rolling over and wrapping Courfeyrac in his arms.

“That was literally the first time we started this tutoring thing,” Courfeyrac says, snuggling into his warmth. “That’s not possible.”

“Well,” Combeferre says, dragging out the word, “if I’m being honest, it was the first time you walked into class. But you didn’t seem to like me that much.”

“I didn’t,” Courfeyrac admits, “I thought you were a smart ass, annoying, hot nerd.”

“And now?” Combeferre asks, and Courfeyrac can hear the smile in his voice.

“You’re still a smart ass, annoying, hot nerd. But you’re mine. If you want to be, that is,” Courfeyrac adds nervously. They haven't talked about it, they just kissed a long while and had some (frankly amazing) sex, but they haven't talked boundaries, haven't defined the relationship, and he doesn't want to be presumptuous. 

(But his heart is breaking at the thought of Combeferre not being his.)

Combeferre laughs, suddenly, loudly, and Courfeyrac wants to bottle the sound, to keep it and unleash it on a rainy day.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Courfeyrac snuggles closer to him, tracing the tattoos on Combeferre’s arms.

Combeferre lets him.

\---

**EPILOGUE:**

The instant Professor Valjean dismisses the class, Courfeyrac makes his way to Combeferre.

“So,” he says, leaning forward, trying to be cool, “Guess what your incredibly awesome, incredibly talented, and incredibly smart student-boyfriend got on this last quiz?”

Combeferre looks up at him, eyebrow raised. “D?” He asks, teasingly, a small smile playing on his lips.

Courfeyrac gasps, pressing his hands to his chest. "You wound me!" He says, pretending to wipe the tears away. "Do you really not trust me that much?"

Combeferre's eyebrow goes higher, if you could believe it, and Courfeyrac drops his hands sticks his tongue out at him, before dangling the paper up at him, showing the red mark denoting the ‘A’.

Combeferre’s entire face lights up. “That’s fantastic!"

Courfeyrac smiles proudly. “It's all thanks to you,” he says, and pulls Combeferre in for a kiss.

Professor Valjean doesn’t mind.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Ed Sheeran's All of the Stars


End file.
